


Watson

by EmptyHouse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Evil, BAMF John, Dom John, Eventual Smut, John-centric, Light BDSM, M/M, Male Slash, Post Reichenbach, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sherlock-centric, Slash, dark!john, evil!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:55:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmptyHouse/pseuds/EmptyHouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The consulting detective cocks an apathetic smile and tilts his head just so, fingers drumming against the butt of a Glock. He wants very much to kill this man—he wants to end it. But first—first, he must give him a chance to talk. Not to redeem himself, not to save his skin; Sherlock wants the sniper to plead, to reveal any missing leads, to make something clever out of this common slaughter. To simply shoot the man would be a shame; no, it's been too long, there's been too much build up.</p><p>By the by, Sherlock is Mr. Punchline.</p><p>“Any last words?” he asks, his voice chiding. “Most men delve right into regrets. Or bitter insults. Sometimes they admit things I want to hear.” Sherlock cocks the gun. “Most of the time, they bore me. Make it worthwhile, Mr. Moran.”</p><p>That's Colonel to you,” he says softly. “Colonel Sebastian Moran, Fifth Regiment of the Northumberland Fusiliers.”</p><p>Finger on the trigger, he shoots Moran dead.</p><p>Not before, however, the man instructs him: “Give John my regards.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by a strange combination of Wild Target and Skyfall. It's my first on this site, but I have forty some-odd fics on fanfiction, so don't think me inexperienced. A good amount of credit goes to my friend Jesselyn, though the writing is entirely my own. She and I RP regularly--I have a rather annoying Sherlock muse and she has a very pissed John. After we both watched Wild Target, a second, evil!John appeared. Between us, he's known only as Watson. Hence the name. My Sherlock likes him very much, so I've developed a little Watson of my own for him to play with on the off-days. The result is this fic. While it'll follow a bit of our RP, I'm taking the plot in a different direction.
> 
> Also, sorry that the prologue is so short. The first few chapters might run on the smaller side of things, but I promise to get quite lengthy quite soon. Hope you enjoy! They'll be more to come soon.

A dark alleyway—a fitting end for the three-year blackness that has consumed Sherlock's life. He stalks the last man of Moriarty's ring here, and in the abysmal artery coursing through London's south end Moran turns to look his murderer in the eye. The consulting detective cocks an apathetic smile and tilts his head just so, fingers drumming against the butt of a Glock. He wants very much to kill this man—he wants to end it. But first—first, he must give him a chance to talk. Not to redeem himself, not to save his skin; Sherlock wants the sniper to plead, to reveal any missing leads, to make something clever out of this common slaughter. To simply shoot the man would be a shame; no, it's been too long, there's been too much build up.

By the by, Sherlock is Mr. Punchline.

“Any last words?” he asks, his voice chiding. “Most men delve right into regrets. Or bitter insults. Sometimes they admit things I want to hear.” Sherlock cocks the gun. “Most of the time, they bore me. Make it worthwhile, Mr. Moran.”

His prey licks his lips, but suddenly his eyes say Sherlock is the hunted now. Sebastian Moran is an assassin—looking into the barrel of a gun with disdain and confidence is not unreasonable for such a monster. The laughter that parts his lips, though, is unusual. He must know that there is no way to survive this encounter. Sherlock will not spare him, the last of Moriarty's men. He's killed better men in the past three years, and Moran knows it. He knows he will die.

“That's Colonel to you,” he says softly. “Colonel Sebastian Moran, Fifth Regiment of the Northumberland Fusiliers.”

The knowledge rings familiar with Sherlock, and his eyebrows knit together. The phrase is tucked away, somewhere under the dust collected on anything not murder, not vengeance, not Moriarty. He finds it deep in a wing he's left untouched—the wing that, if opened, would have destroyed him over the past three years. Rather than disturb the peace he's given that particular part of his Mind Palace, Sherlock lets it be. Finger on the trigger, he shoots Moran dead.

Not before, however, the man instructs him: “Give John my regards.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the notes and kudos! I appreciate it :) This is another short chapter, unfortunately, but things will start to pick up pace.

_“This is the end.”_

Gunshots in the dark, this is a quiet corner of London. The call to the police is made almost immediately.

Sirens break through the stunned silence before flashing lights. A Panda skids to the curb, nearly tips over it, and a withering detective emerges, gun pointed. His face creases under stark, graying hair as he struggles to see into the darkened passageway.

Footsteps in the mouth of the alley, barked threats. Sherlock hears them, still waits alongside Moran's body. Blood has begun to pool, eclipse his Oxfords, but he still studies the man. There's nothing left he can get out of him—he's dead, rather easy to deduce now that he's played his last hand—but Sherlock really doesn't need anything else. This all seems horribly familiar.

Sherlock raises his hands to either side of his head, lingering close to dark curls tussled and tangled by wind and years of neglect. He hears Lestrade, but he does not listen, does not process. There is only Moran and his implications and _John._

The footsteps grow increasingly closer—painfully slow, the detective seems warier than in the days they worked together, or perhaps Sherlock just isn't used to the inherent slowness his world used to possess—until Lestrade recognizes the man before him. For the graying detective, the crime scene seems to melt away. It devours Sherlock.

“Oh god,” breaks through his shell of thought, and their eyes meet. The soft click of a holstered gun, continued footsteps. The detective inspector approaches Sherlock, eyes wide, and whatever he had left to say dies on lis lips. Sherlock stares at him and says naught. Donovan's voice drifts from somewhere in the distance, as to fill in Sherlock's negligence, but she does not know yet. She does not see.

“Greg!” And a moment later, “Greg, have you got 'em?” Lestrade's footsteps are wet—the pool of blood that has swallowed Sherlock's polished Oxfords threatens him as well. He doesn't seem to notice. His hands go to Sherlock's steady arms, his eyes to Sherlock's unwavering, blood-speckled face. There is no trace of the Fall on him, but neither is there life. It reminds Lestrade of a time before John, before the consulting detective's humanity had been salvaged and his life made worthwhile. Now, it seems as if he has forfeited his soul once more.

“You're alive,” he readily informs Sherlock, but there is no snipping, no sneering, no speaking. The traditional Holmesian 'so it would seem,' that he mutters bears no weight or bite, and that—that, never mind the dead man behind him, the three years of supposed death he's evaded—is what concerns Lestrade. “How...?” In all honesty, he doesn't want to know. Sherlock doesn't give him an answer, and he's more than happy to ignore it in favor of, “Does John know?”

This seems to wake him. His eyes flicker to a semblance of life, darting from Lestrade to the body behind him, then the darkened sky. He can see no stars—it's London, after all. The city he's so missed. That's alright, they're pointless anyway.

Sherlock would delve into the details of his survival rather than the very thought of the army doctor at the moment. He does neither, settles for examining Lestrade instead. Cheap suit—Aldi, by the looks of it. Face unshaven for at least a day now, no more than three. A good bit thinner than before—stress, exhaustion, and from the way he stands a good bit of legwork—except through the stomach and a bit of his face—excessive alcohol intake, most-likely beer due to the weight distribution and Sherlock's own knowledge of his preferences. He's had tough luck with work, Sherlock surmises. Less money coming in. Depression, too. Wedding ring gone from his finger—divorce, though he's a willing participant, most-likely cause for depression and drinking. Poor work performance likely cause of divorce. Well, besides the cheating. Her end.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asks, stirring him from his deductions. “I suppose he doesn't, then.” No response. The detective sighs at him, rather than his usual glowering business. Perhaps it's because he's just returned from the dead. Sherlock did expect exceptional treatment for the first month or so. Now he's not entirely sure.

The pattering footsteps of Sergeant Donovan draw Lestrade's attention away for a moment, and Sherlock takes the distraction to wipe the gun of his fingerprints. It's something he should have done before the police arrived—in fact, he should have fled the scene as well—but he was thoroughly raptured by the puzzle presented by Moran in his final moments of life. He tosses the gun across the alley and peers beyond Lestrade.

Sally's face has already gone slack in something rather akin to horror, and Sherlock idly wishes he'd been able to catch it blooming on her visage. She gasps something unimportant to Lestrade, who sighs and advances on her slowly, soothingly. It is interesting, Sherlock must admit, when she pulls her gun and begins to take shots at him, though she's a terrible aim.

“—supposed to be dead!” is the tail end of her shriek, cut off by the blast of her handgun. Lestrade drops out of the way, and Sherlock merely sidesteps her field of aim. When Donovan turns to continue her murderous barrage, he knocks the firearm from her hands and snarls through his teeth. “Sally!” Lestrade barks from his prone position on the ground. Sherlock takes the moment of her indignant glare to kick the gun as far away as possible. “Don't _shoot at him_ , for god's sake! Do you know what bullocks you could get for killing a deadman!?”

As Donovan barks out a, “No!” rather loudly, Sherlock rolls his eyes and withdraws from the scene. He stalks down the alley in the opposite direction, and it's only after a moment that either of them notice. “Freak! Come back here!” is the only bit of Sally's orders that he catches, but she's quickly hushed by Lestrade's calm tones, apparently aiding him in his escape.

With a scowl, Sherlock wipes the last of the blood off his feet and turns the corner. It's only a matter of time now before the news of his miraculous return from the dead is every headline of every paper in all of England, and there are things that must be done before he is revealed.

First and foremost on his list is Dr. John H. Watson.


End file.
